“Are you hungry? Would you like some pasta?”

I wasn’t hungry. The meds made my gut ache, so I shook my head. “No.”

She didn’t move, so I glanced up at her. She looked like she wanted to say something, but then she sighed.

“Maybe later,” she said.

“This wasn’t what I’d planned,” I said bitterly, staring at her walls lined with stunning black and white photographs that I guessed she’d taken for her work.

“It’s not what either of us had in mind,” she replied carefully, “but we’ll deal, won’t we?”

“I thought I’d be carrying you over the fucking threshold,” I scowled, my mouth twisting with disgust.

“That doesn’t matter, Sebastian. We…”

And then I lost it.

“Yes, it does fucking matter, Caro!” I shouted, making her jump. “It really fucking matters! Christ, can’t you understand something as fucking simple as that?”

She blanched and apologized hurriedly.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian, I just…”

“Just what, Caro?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, walking into the kitchen.

I felt guilty for shouting at her. As if I needed more fucking guilt in my life. And that thought made me angry. But hell! Didn’t she understand? Didn’t she get how fucking humiliating it was to have to be grateful to her for every fucking little thing? I hated how weak I was. I hated how worried Caro looked. I hated everything about my fucking life.

I need a drink.

I don’t know where that thought came from, but it was coming through loud and clear.

I could hear Caro in the kitchen and then she returned with a plate of sandwiches that she placed down next to me.

And I really hated that no one listened to what I wanted anymore. I’d already told her I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to throw that fucking plate at the wall. I didn’t, but I wanted to.

Instead, I concentrated on controlling my breathing.

I guess Caro couldn’t stand the silence, because eventually she turned on the TV, quickly flicking off news reports of Afghanistan, so we ended up watching something about meerkats in Africa. Fuck’s sake.

“Do you have any beer?” I asked.

Caro jumped in her chair.

“Oh, no, sorry,” she stuttered. “I could open some wine?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

It was better than nothing.

She came back with a bottle of red wine. I have no idea what type it was. I just wanted to get drunk as quickly as possible, I wanted to get numb as quickly as possible. And because I hadn’t had a drink in over four months, it didn’t take long.

I was planning on finishing the entire bottle, but Caro took it into the kitchen after I’d drunk about half of it. That pissed me off.

“Caro, what are you doing with the fucking wine?”

She gave me a hard look.

“You haven’t eaten anything and you have to take your painkillers, Sebastian. So no, the wine stays in the kitchen.”

The ticking time bomb of insanity exploded.

“Jesus fucking Christ! What is wrong with you? I’m stuck in this fucking chair and all I want is a fucking drink! Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me what I can and can’t drink? Who the fuck are you to tell me how to live my life? Who gave you the right? No one! Fucking no one!”

Even as the fury raged, a part of me knew I was being a complete bastard; I just couldn’t stop myself.

She didn’t even try to fight back, and that made me angrier. When I was too exhausted to shout anymore, I stopped.

Her face was in shadow, so I couldn’t tell what she was thinking anymore. I could probably guess: nothing good.

“Should I show you where the bedroom is?” she asked quietly.

“It’s a fucking bungalow, Caro,” I yelled again, “how fucking difficult do you think it’s going to be? I’m not a fucking moron, even if I am a cripple.”

“Sebastian…”

But I didn’t wait to listen. I pulled myself off the couch, clenching my teeth as pain lanced through me.

I stumbled against the wall, feeling the effects of the wine, then crashed into the spare room. After I fought my way out of that, I found the master bedroom. I sat down heavily, having to catch my breath from the extreme fucking effort of walking 20 feet. How pathetic was that? I pulled off my t-shirt, dropping it on the floor beside the bed, then eased off my sneakers and jeans. It took forever to get my socks off. For fuck’s sake. I lay on my good side, facing away from Caro’s side of the bed.

A few minutes later, she joined me and I tensed up. I didn’t know what she’d want, what she’d expect. Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to her.

She slipped into the bed, careful not to jostle me, then spooned her body behind mine, resting her arm across my waist and stroking my skin. A bolt of terror shuttled through me.

I shifted slightly.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice cold and harsh.

She pulled her hand back quickly and I heard the breath hitch in her throat, but she didn’t speak.

I don’t know how long we both lay there, awake, not talking. It was a long fucking time. And then I heard her crying. She didn’t think that I was awake, but I was.

I wanted to reach out to her, comfort her, but I couldn’t do it. The sooner I was out of her life, the better for her.

The next day, I could tell that she was more hopeful. I don’t know why— same shit different day. I wasn’t better. I was worse. And the day after that, a lot worse. I couldn’t admit it to myself, but I was sinking fast.

During the days that followed, I had no interest in anything: I wouldn’t shower or change my clothes unless she nagged until my head pounded. I refused to shave. In the Marines you had to shave every day. I was a civilian, so what was the point.

Even when my beard started itching like fuck, I refused to shave it off. And with paranoia becoming a worsening problem, I felt as if I could hide behind it. My buzz cut had grown out as well. No one would guess I was a Marine. A former Marine. Fuck.

I was supposed to be continuing with my therapy sessions at a vets hospital, but I refused to have anything to do with it. If the Marines didn’t want me, fuck ‘em.

“What the fuck do they know about it, Caro?” I shouted when she mentioned it again.

“A lot: you’re not the first Marine who’s been injured,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm.

“Former Marine. Former fucking Marine, Caro. I’m nothing now. Maybe you can try and fucking remember that.”

She shut up then.

But the next day, she tried a different angle.

“Sebastian, have you thought any more about when we’ll get married? Or where? Because I don’t mind if we go to San Diego and…”

No, no, NO!

“I’m not going to let you marry a useless, fucking cripple,” I roared. “If I can’t even walk down the fucking aisle without a fucking stick…”

She didn’t ask me again.

I knew I was struggling, but I didn’t want to give in. Instead, the PTSD began to swallow me up: mood swings, raised anxiety levels, flashbacks that were so fucking terrifying I’d end up cowering on the floor, not even believing I was back in the US. So I drank. I worked my way through Caro’s small collection of wine, ignoring her when she tried to stop me.

My usual responses were shouting and yelling, or just zoning out completely. I was hanging by a thread, and sometimes I thought it might be easier to let it break. I was close.

It was the stupidest fucking thing that kept me clinging on: that tiny heart-shaped pebble that Caro had given me back in Geneva. I kept it with me all the time, rubbing my fingers over the smooth surface, letting the motion soothe me and remind me that the ocean was timeless and endless, making my fuckedupness meaningless.

One day, late in the summer, Caro suggested that her friends come over to ‘cheer’ me up. Was she fucking insane? Oh wait, no … that was me.

“Yeah, they want to come see the fucking war cripple,” I snapped, “make them feel good, like fucking charity. What’s the matter with you, Caro? Do I look like I’m ready to see anyone?”